Hello
by darnedchild
Summary: Sherlock vaguely remembered telling Molly something about always deleting texts that began with 'hi' unread. He wondered what Molly would say if she knew that he had read every text she'd ever sent. Not necessarily in a timely manner, as that exact moment would attest, but he read all of them and saved quite a few. SAW 2018 Day Five – (Canon Compliant – The Six Thatchers)


SAW 2018 Day Five – (Canon Compliant – The Six Thatchers/The Lying Detective)

Sequel to "Hi." from last year's Sherlolly Appreciation Week.

 **Hello.**

Lestrade's call with a case, a seven minimum, couldn't have come at a better time. Sherlock had been bored (bored, bored) and John was being unhelpful. Within minutes, Sherlock was pulling on his Belstaff and leading the way down the stairs of Baker Street with an eager bounce in his step.

After a cab ride that took far too long for Sherlock's taste, he and John were pushing their way through the door to the morgue within half an hour.

Molly looked up as they entered. "Oh, did you get my text?"

He made himself comfortable leaning against one of the exam tables. "Hmm? No, was it important?" Mental note to check the phone for a text from Molly later. "Gavin-"

Sherlock ignored John's interruption, probably attempting to correct him again. As if it were important what name he used, everyone knew he was talking about Lestrade. "-should be here within the hour. He's got what could be a seven, possibly an eight; and he's promised to make sure the body gets sent here."

He grinned and slapped his hands together. "So, what do you have to keep me out of trouble in the meantime?"

As he'd hoped, Molly had just the thing to keep him occupied for the fifty-six minutes it took for the body to arrive.

Once Molly had completed her initial exam and let him have a look at the corpse, he'd had enough to go on. He led the other two men toward the exit, intent on examining the crime scene; but the urge to go back to Molly's side, to press a quick thank you kiss to her cheek, had him pause just before he crossed the threshold. Sherlock shook the feeling off and ushered John and Lestrade through, urging them to move faster.

A day and a half later, after Lestrade had arrested the wife's lover (it was always the lover) and Sherlock was back to Baker Street passing the time until his next case, he finally pulled up the text Molly had sent.

 **Hi. Bored silly. I've found kidney in the back of the freezer this afternoon. I was going to dispose of it, but I thought you might like to observe the effects of freezer burn.**

He vaguely remembered telling her something about always deleting texts that began with 'hi' unread. His lips curled into a smile as he closed the text without deleting it. He wondered what Molly would say if she knew that he had read every text she'd ever sent. Not necessarily in a timely manner, as that exact moment would attest, but he read all of them and saved quite a few.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

 **Hi. Read about your case in the paper. Your seven turned out to be a nine, then? Nurse Meghan in OB says you are 'extremely lickable', in case you're interested.**

Sherlock grimaced as he read Molly's text. 'Extremely lickable'? What did that even mean? And why would he be interested in what Nurse Meghan in OB thought?

A tiny, treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispered that he wouldn't mind if Molly found him lickable.

"And that is enough of that." Sherlock rolled off his sofa and tossed the phone onto his desk in one smooth motion.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

At some point, he had given Molly her own personalized text tone. A subtle little tune. Short. Only three bright little notes. Inconspicuous enough to seem generic to anyone else.

He heard the tone often over the next few months.

Most of the texts were mundane, the silly sort of small talk Molly enjoyed and he normally found tedious. All of them began the same way.

Some of them though . . . Some of them made him stop for a moment. Made him stare off into nothing while a parade of images and thoughts he wasn't used to acknowledging trampled roughshod through his brain.

 **Hi. Pasta and pork in the canteen again. Reminded me of the night you asked me to bring out the two murder victims so you could look at their feet. I've thought about getting a tattoo. Cherries, maybe. Haven't figured out where, though.**

Cherries. A pair of them still attached at the stems, just like her favourite cardigan. Where would she put them? Somewhere only a lover would see. How long would it take him to figure it out, Sherlock wondered.

 **Hi. I know you don't read these, but sometimes I like to pretend you do, and that you smile just a bit when you see that someone is thinking about you. Not for a case, just because. I hope you have a good night, Sherlock.**

As much as he didn't want to admit it, he did smile when he read it. John had asked what he'd read, assumed it was something about a case, and Sherlock didn't bother to correct him.

 **Hi. I miss sex. Meena says I should just go out to a bar and find a guy, but that just seems so cold. What if he's absolute rubbish in bed? It would be very disappointing to go to all that trouble only to find out he doesn't even know where the clitoris is.**

That one followed him around for ages. It would pop into his head at the most inopportune times. He really shouldn't think about Molly having sex with anyone. Especially with him.

Although, in the completely unlikely event that the need should ever arise, he had absolute confidence in his ability to locate her clitoris.

 **Hi. Mary is a horrible horrible awesome friend. She got me very very tipsy. She bet me I wouldn't tell you that I would like you to bend me over your chair and make me scream. By shagging me. In case there was any confusion. Consider this me telling you. Ha, I win the bet! Bite me, Mary.**

John had been at Baker Street when that text came through. Sherlock had reached for his phone, eyes scanning the text without a second thought, while John continued to go on and on about what he should blog about next. Sherlock had no idea how long he'd stared at the words before he realized John was calling his name.

"Hello, Earth to Sherlock? Is it a case?"

"Erm, no. It's nothing." Sherlock quickly stuffed his phone into his pocket and hoped he didn't look as flushed as he felt. So far he hadn't told Molly he read her texts, deducing that she'd stop if she knew. He'd found himself looking forward to the brief messages every few days. But that one, that one might be the one to break him.

He kicked John out not long after and very deliberately did not look at his phone again until the next day. Just in case.

Sherlock had no idea how he was going to react to seeing Molly at Barts the next day. He kept vacillating between confronting her about the texts, continuing to pretend he didn't read the damn things, and dragging her into the nearest storage closet. In the end, the way she wouldn't meet his eyes and blushed every time he entered the room made his decision easy. He left without saying a word about them.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

 **Hi. I heard about your case. I know everyone else has already told you that it's not your fault, you can't save them all. You're probably sick of hearing it. But it's true. Remember how many people you've helped, Sherlock. How many lives you've made better. The world needs you. I need you.**

She was right. Everyone who mattered had already mouthed the same words. "It's not your fault, Sherlock." "There was nothing any of us could have done." "We caught the bastard so it won't happen to another girl, Sherlock."

God, it was so much easier when he didn't care. When he held himself above all those feelings, all that . . . humanity.

He wanted to call her, rage at her, lash out. Wanted to throw his phone across the room and watch it shatter against the fireplace mantel.

But her last sentence stilled his hand.

I need you.

Sherlock took a deep breath and clutched the phone tighter.

"I need you, too."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Nearly three months after that first text, Sherlock's phone trilled Molly's bright little tone while he was en route to Barts with John and Lestrade.

 **Hi, Sherlock. Dreading going shopping, but a girl needs new knickers from time to time. I'm thinking something lacy. Thoughts? I wonder what your favourite colour is?**

His breath caught and he had never been so grateful that John and Lestrade were so incredibly unobservant in his life.

He couldn't take it anymore. He just couldn't. Something had to be done about Miss Molly Hooper and her texting habits.

Molly was already examining the body when they arrived. As always, he enjoyed watching her work, appreciated the meticulous way she went about her job.

"Sherlock, look at this."

He blinked when she called his name. He drew out his magnifying glass and studied the shard of plastic she'd found embedded in the shirt material. "Mmm. Could be something, could be nothing." Sherlock couldn't help himself when he straightened up and caught her eye. "Thoughts, Molly?" He purposely echoed her text, emphasising the words.

It took everything he had to keep from smirking at the hint of panic in her expression.

"I-I wouldn't hazard a guess yet, I've only just begun."

Oh, it had been ages since he'd heard that stammer from her. He definitely had her off kilter. Good. She'd disturbed him enough over the last few months, it was only fair.

"Right. Sherlock, you've got any theories to share with the class?" Greg's voice pulled him back to the reason he was at Barts in the first place, the case.

"Several, but we can eliminate three with a simple physical examination. Molly, if we could remove his jacket?"

Fifteen minutes later, he had narrowed it down to two possibilities.

"I hate to interrupt the party, but I need to collect Rosie from the creche." John lifted his wrist and pointed to his watch. "Mrs Hudson is willing to watch Rosie for a few hours, but she doesn't have a car seat for pick up."

He would need to see where the body was found anyway. Sherlock pushed away from the exam table and reached for his coat as Lestrade offered to drop John off before heading on to Baker Street. He waited until the other men had left the room to speak. "Oh, Molly?"

"Yes?" She looked beautiful with her lab coat and ponytail. How many times had he noticed that before and immediately put it out of his mind?

He shrugged into his Belstaff and headed toward the door. "It's red."

Molly frowned, confused. "Pardon?"

"Cherry red. You wanted to know my favourite colour." Then he winked and followed the other two men down the hall.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Sherlock wondered if she'd text him again.

Would she be too embarrassed? Was she currently at home, mortified beyond belief? Was she working up the nerve to call him up and tell him off for not saying anything sooner?

Was she out shopping right now, trying on lacy red knickers?

Only one way to know for sure.

He pulled out his phone and brought up Molly's name in his contacts.

 **Hello. I'm thinking Italian for dinner. I know a place. Care to join me?**


End file.
